


A Night of Firsts

by cloudymagnolia



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pregnancy sex, post-fifth elephant, sam vimes is awkward, these two are so derpy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 10:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12319092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudymagnolia/pseuds/cloudymagnolia
Summary: Sybil doesn't want to wake Sam. Sam doesn't want to hurt Sybil. But it does, eventually, dawn on them that they both want the same thing.





	A Night of Firsts

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before going through and reading the AO3 corpus of Sam/Sybil works, and it turns out that this bears a startling resemblance to MistressParamore's excellent story Whilst In Uberwald. I encourage you to go and read it.

Vimes woke because the world was shaking.

No, that wasn’t right. He waited for a moment to see if his thoughts would sort themselves out.

He was disoriented.

He’d been drinking.

No, no, he thought, pushing the thought away, he hadn’t had a drink in years, not since he’d married…

His eyes popped open.

…Sybil.

He rolled himself up on one elbow. It took her several seconds to notice, and for those few seconds he had a moonlit view of his wife with her nightdress pulled up to her waist, one leg lifted 90 degrees in the air, right hand busy at the place between her thighs while her left hand had slid beneath the collar of her nightdress, fondling a breast. Vimes forced himself to take a careful breath through his nose.

Abruptly, Sybil seemed to sense him watching. She froze. Vimes realized her knickers were hanging off her lifted leg.

Sybil placed her leg back on the bed and righted her nightdress.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” she said, in a voice that contained not even a hint of embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Sam Vimes’s ears were flaming. There were a number of words his brain suggested to his mouth, but, wisely, his mouth selected none of them.

Finally, he cleared his throat and managed, “Why ever not?”

“Because you need your rest, Sam.” The response was immediate. “Werewolves tried to eat you on Monday.”

Ah, yes.

Recollection, which had been waiting so _patiently_ behind the door of his mind, proceeded to force its way through and trample his other thoughts.

He winced. He hadn’t really… And _surely_ he couldn’t have… With a _tree branch_?

With a _firework_?

No wonder he felt like Detritus had been bouncing his head along the cobbles.

“I would have liked to be woken up for this,” he said.

“No, Sam.”

_No_? Sam Vimes felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach.

“These days it can take me two or three tries to… to settle down,” Lady Sybil continued, apparently not noticing the look on her husband’s face. “It wouldn’t be fair to you. We aren’t as young as we used to be.”

And now he’d been stomped on while he was down. Oh, she’d said “we” in an attempt to lessen the sting, but she may as well have said, “You can’t last as long as you used to, Sam Vimes.”

_And she’s right_ , a treacherous, wheedling voice began – a voice that he would never consciously admit sounded just like Mavis Trouncer. _You can’t._ He felt the anger twining around his intestines, but was able to push it away, recognizing it as dumb machismo.

Besides, he thought, just because they were married didn’t mean he owned her body, or had a right to lie with her whenever he wanted. He’d been to enough domestic disturbances, seen enough wives with suspicious bruises and a hunted look in their eyes to feel very definite about _that_. And if he couldn’t do the job, why shouldn’t Sybil… take herself in hand, as they say?

His eyes roved down her body and then back up it, stopping in places that were particular favorites of his. They landed on her face, her eyes especially, beginning to fill up with worry and the stunted, shrunken hope that she kept so carefully under guard when it came to matters of romance.

The hell with it, he thought, watching her bite her lip. Aging or not, it would be a pretty poor day when Sam Vimes couldn’t satisfy his _wife_.

He flipped himself over onto her, so that he could give her a few quick, breathless kisses before trailing his way down her jaw, down her neck, down her sternum to her chest.

“Oh, Sam,” she said in a voice that, in a less well-bred lady, would have been a moan. “You really don’t have to.”

He kept going. That had been her, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,” voice, and Sam had learned to ignore the actual words it said in favor of the inflections it carried years ago.

_Besides_ , he hissed at the ever-present doubts, _I’d be able to tell if she didn’t like it, wouldn’t I? She’d tell me if she wanted me to stop, surely?_

Vimes had _nightmares_ about Sybil becoming one of those wives with the suspicious bruises and the hunted look in her eyes. The kind his mother had been.

And then Lady Sybil did moan, cutting through the fog of his doubts like a brisk morning wind, and Vimes found he had the confidence to continue his downward journey. He kissed and nibbled and sucked his way down her rounded, pillow-like belly, until he had his face between her thighs.

Obligingly, Sybil bent her legs at the knee and spread them a little wider, giving him a better view.

Sam paused. He had never done this before – at least not with Sybil. He couldn’t exactly articulate it, but beneath the egalitarian foundation of his soul, which _knew_ that rich people were just as mean, and stupid, and wretched as poor people, was the bedrock certainty that Sybil was too good for him. She didn’t just have money, she had class, and grace, and intelligence, and – and _decency_ , for gods’ sake, and all he had was the cynicism he’d basted in alcohol for decades that had kept him alive. In any sane universe, he wouldn’t even be fit to lick Sybil’s practical, flame-retardant boots, nonetheless her – her…

His brain gave up, especially after Sybil called, sounding rather worried, “Is everything alright down there, Sam?” He exhaled – a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding – and his breath against her flesh made her muscles visibly tense.

Steeling himself, he parted her lips with his fingers and licked up the slick distance until his tongue found her swollen nib, standing at attention, begging to be touched.

He wasn’t expecting her to moan and writhe, flinging her legs with such force that he had to duck out of the way to avoid getting concussed.

Before he could open his mouth to ask if she was alright, the voice floated down from above:

“Sam Vimes, you do that again this _instant_ or I will throw you off this bed.”

Vimes blinked.

“Just hold down my legs if they thrash around,” she continued.

Vimes blinked again, but his body had already started to obey.

He hooked an arm around the leg that had almost brained him and nudged her open with his other hand. He licked up her again, slower this time, and Sybil let out a long, guttural groan. He found her clitoris, still so – so _enflamed_ , and could think of only one thing to do.

The leg under Vimes’s arm clenched as he began to suck, and her free leg pressed down into the bed to tip herself up and give him a better angle.

Oh, gods, he thought, using his tongue to increase the suction, he remembered now, the taste was nothing to write home about but the smell made his balls _ache_. He sucked harder, and Sybil surprised him by grinding herself onto his face, so that his stubble became wet with her arousal and her clitoris was jammed against the tip of his teeth. He began nibbling then, breathing in great heaving lungfuls of her scent all around him, and gods, how was this not too much for her, when it was almost too much for him…?

He got his answer a few seconds later, when Sybil orgasmed. Or at least, he thought she did. All the little sounds were right, and a wave of wetness soaked his chin, but Sybil, who normally needed a quiet moment to collect herself after she came, this time kept right on grinding herself on her husband’s face.

Harder, if that were possible.

Feeling a little light-headed, Sam found her opening with a finger and slipped it inside.

This was another thing he’d never done with Sybil. Oh, he’d touched her clitoris, of course, while they made love, rubbing circles over it to bring her to her climax. But he’d never actually put a finger _inside_ her before, out of some vague notion that it wasn’t Something One Did with a lady.

Sybil muffled a shout with what was probably a pillow, which put _that_ idea to rest right there and then. He pulled his finger out and then thrust it back in, screwing her with his hand.

It was amazing how _different_ she felt when she was around his finger instead of around his cock. Roomier, for one thing, but there were also all sorts of interesting ripples and divots that he’d only ever been half-aware of before. He brushed a calloused fingertip over a quarter-dollar sized area with a peculiar texture, and was gratified when her hips bucked under him. He began stroking her there, never letting up with his mouth, until he felt her convulse around him and not even the pillow could fully muffle her scream.

Her body stilled, and, regretfully, he pulled away, wiping his face on the eiderdown and resolving to leave a healthy tip for the inn’s landlady, who’d have to deal with the linens in the morning. He settled himself next to his wife, awkwardly aware of how his erection was tenting out his drawers, when --

“Make love to me, Sam,” Sybil murmured.

Sam Vimes pushed himself up, indignant.

“What have I been _doing_ for the past half-hour, then,” he growled, but Sybil stopped him.

“Please, Sam. I want to feel your manhood inside me.”

Vimes felt his ears go hot. Sybil always sounded like that when she spoke about sex, and it embarrassed him; it sounded like the dialogue you got in the dime-store ladies’ erotica he sometimes caught Cheery reading. But his erection was throbbing, and then he noticed that Sybil was fondling her breasts with both hands, pinching her nipples over her nightgown, and _watching_ him, so he kicked off his drawers and settled himself between her legs and – never looking away from her face – pushed himself inside.

He groaned. She was slick and tight and _hot_ around him, and her scent still lingered on his nose. He pulled out and pushed back in in one long, luxuriant stroke.

“Go deeper, Sam.”

And so he did. And deeper, and deeper still, until Sybil wrapped her legs around him and hooked them at the ankle so she could guide him in as deep as she liked. She’d never done _that_ before, he thought with a gasp, as he tried to find _that spot_ inside of her. He cupped her backside in his hands and tilted her up to get a different angle, thrusting again – _there._ She gasped and arched her back while he grunted with the effort of holding himself back…

Until Lady Sybil cried out, “ _Harder_ , Sam, _please,_ ” and his control broke, and he pounded into her, no longer able to worry about if he was hurting her – which he wasn’t, judging by the sound of her delighted squeals – their bodies making a wet sound as they moved against each other. He pistoned into her, thrusting like his life depended on it, until Sybil threw back her head and Came.

It needed the capital letter; it was as if the prior orgasms had been the foreshocks leading up to the big bang. It seemed to go on forever, and sometime during it his body released, shuddering as his come flooded Sybil and she writhed all around him, both of them sharing in her ecstasy –

It was some time later. He was very sure about that, although he had absolutely no idea how much time had passed.

Sybil said his name. He thought maybe this was the second or third time she’d said it.

“Yes dear?” His words were muffled from where his face was still planted in her chest. He pushed himself up.

“Yes, dear?” he tried again.

“That was wonderful, Sam.”

Sam Vimes rolled off of his wife so he could cradle her – or as much of her as he could reach – in his arms.

“That’s why you should wake me up,” he grunted, as his arm slid comfortably into the dip beneath her breasts.

“Yes, Sam.”

A thought occurred to him.

“Sybil, dear,” he said carefully. “Is this… was that… er, is that normally –”

“No, Sam,” his wife sighed happily. “It’s not normal. Old Mrs. Content warned me that something like this might happen. The body changes when you’re carrying a baby.”

Sam Vimes sat bolt upright. Bloody hell, he’d forgotten about the baby! And he’d just – he’d just –

He must have said – or shouted – some part of his thoughts out loud, because Sybil was making shushing noises and pulling on his arm.

He crumpled down next to her.

“We didn’t… _I_ didn’t… you don’t think the baby…”

“The baby’s _fine_ , Sam,” Sybil said, patting his hand. “Mrs. Content says an orgasm a week is the best way to have a healthy pregnancy, although it sounds like the logistics get rather complicated in the later months.”

Vimes stared into the darkness.

“And my mother used to say an orgasm a _day_ was more like it.”

Vimes supposed that, if there was one area where he really ought to trust the Ramkin family wisdom, it was where it came to breeding more Ramkins. Even if, in this case, they were breeding a Vimes.

He felt a faint touch of pride at that, even though he knew it was a damn’ stupid thing to feel. Any idiot could make a baby.

And then Sybil sighed a sated, contented sigh, and he realized that it was making a baby _with Sybil_ that was the important bit.

With that happy thought at the front of his mind, he buried his face in her neck and fell asleep.

 


End file.
